from The Familar Dead

6

The connection’s late by an hour.

Yet you're afraid to explore

the pretty town, to stray

too far from the station.  You've cut

your hand without noticing. You sit down

on a flaking bench.

When was the last time you were

touched? The laughter from the station bar,

the slap of card on table, are closer

when you shut your eyes. The same

words keep being repeated,

their meaning out of reach.

7

Concentrate on the architecture,

not the sickness, things to make

and mend. Yet it’s difficult

to know where you are when

the concision of guidebooks only adds

to the feeling of lostness.

You cannot or will not go

home. For almost every

corner or porticoed street

there’s a journey through thick

grey air, a face without

a name at the end of it.

8

On the crowded tram, the accidental

touch of a hand is enough

to pinpoint your loneliness.

You grow open at the mouth.

The city is an endless thread

you cannot stop unravelling.

Shadows on the street are pared

away. Each face becomes

beautiful and impossible

seen through a moving window

like dolls waving bright

paper flowers and flags.

(Sections 1-5 available on Stride.)